She lifted her head to watch the people following JJ down the road toward the SUVs. Huh, that was Tucker, wasn’t it? And Sarah’s husband?

“JJ.” Gabe came out of the bushes to meet his officer and slapped her shoulder in obvious approval. “Nice timing.”

“I think we’re good. Up you come.” Bull helped her up to her feet.

“Kit.” The gravelly growl made her heart bound. “Jesus, woman.” Hawk grabbed her and lifted her off her feet in a rib-crushing, breath-stealing embrace.

“Hawk.” Arms around his neck, she clung with all her might. “You’re alive. I was so worried.”

And she was shaking far harder now than she had been when shouting at Nabera.

“You’re wearing armor, thank Christ. I thought you were dead.” Hawk scowled at Bull accusingly. “Why the fuck were you in the kill zone?”

“Bro, she insisted—and she was right. The minute she appeared, Nabera forgot you even existed.” Anxiety filling his face, Bull gripped Hawk’s shoulder. “Is Frankie—”

“Fine. I sent her to Caz before nailing Nabera.”

Kit breathed out a sigh of relief. Her bestie was safe.

“Sugar.” Slowly, tenderly, Hawk kissed Kit, then rubbed his cheek against hers. And just held her.

It was what she needed. Everything she needed. She pressed even closer. He was alive.

His arms tightened as she clung to him. Eventually, she lifted her head. “Are you all right?”

“Bruises and cuts, nothing major.” With an unhappy sigh, he straightened and let her loose.

“I know. We have stuff to do,” she muttered.

“Yeah.” He eyed her. “I got good news and bad news.” He wore the same expression as Aric after he’d knocked over a newly seeded planter.

“What did you do?”

“Me? Nothing.” His eyes crinkled with mischief. “Your son, though…”

Chapter Thirty-One

The only redemptive feature of war is the brotherhood which it forges. ~ Max Hastings

Finally released by the Fed who’d interviewed him, Hawk headed toward his house.

The entire area outside the Hermitage still crawled with state troopers, FBI agents, and first responders. Damned if cleanup wasn’t taking longer than the battle. Would the talking ever end?

Jesus, he hurt. His head pounded like it’d been flattened under a Bradley tank. His ribs throbbed enough he would guess that the bastard Milo had kicked him a few times. His shoulders ached. And his gut and wrists? He glanced at his blood-soaked sleeves and flannel shirt. At least the bleeding had stopped.

And he was alive and moving…unlike a lot of the PZs. Ambulances were still hauling away the wounded assholes. The state troopers had taken charge of the rest.

Hawk felt like he’d been out here for days, but past the floodlights, it was still night. The moon had been blotted out by black clouds. Carried on the rising breeze, the air stank of gunpowder, sweat—and death, and all he wanted to do was escape.